


Out in the middle of nowhere

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [11]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure Mode, And so laggy, Can u imagine the claustrophobia you'd get in the Nightmare Throne, Everyone is tired, Fluff, It is so dark in the Epilogue, M/M, Touch-Starved, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 13:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12727893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Day 80+ in this file and it's so boring and so damn laggy and glitchyAll the trees I've planted are breaking the game slowly but surely and I've only covered half the damn island with them.And poor Maxwell just gets to sit there and watch me rush about playing with trees and eggs and spiders





	Out in the middle of nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Day 80+ in this file and it's so boring and so damn laggy and glitchy
> 
> All the trees I've planted are breaking the game slowly but surely and I've only covered half the damn island with them.
> 
> And poor Maxwell just gets to sit there and watch me rush about playing with trees and eggs and spiders

It was night. Or, rather, it was always night.

The pillars had gone out hours ago, the moment the scientist had retired to his tent, and the Nightmare King sat upon his Throne and waited.

Keeping his eyes closed did nothing, the darkness as blank as ever, and Maxwell sighed, hunching his shoulders and leaning onto one of the arms of the Throne. He couldn't quite feel it, but the light brushes of a breeze slid over him and his Throne, carrying with it the smell of dust and salt and rot. If he focused, if he even had the energy to focus, perhaps he'd catch a whiff of birchnuts, wood and leaves and plant growth.

The slow growing forests, no matter the lack of natural sunlight, seemed to be doing well. Wilson cared for them constantly, checking the plants for disease or ill growth as he worked around the towering trees.

Sometimes, when the moon was full, Maxwell could see him walk among the trees, scooping up fallen birchnuts and planting them here or there, looking as calm as ever. 

There wasn't much left to do now, forests covering the small island the Throne inhibited, small spider nests spread about and fireflies flitting between the tree trunks. It had taken years for the man to scrub the wasteland clean, to encourage growth and cheer on it's lethargically flourishing ecosystem.

And it would all be a waste in the end. Maxwell hated looking at it all.

Something slithered around in the darkness, dragging against the carpet, and Maxwell sighed, recalling a conversation he had with the scientist yesterday as the beings of the void skittered about, blinking creamy pale eyes all about him.

Wilson had made an offhanded comment, wondering how much time had passed since he had gotten here, and Maxwell had lied through his teeth, assuring him that it had only been a few years, not that long at all.

It was hard, keeping track of time in total darkness, and so what if it was a lot more than two or three years? Four, five, up to ten years could pass and Wilson would never be sure of if it had really passed or if he just had a hard time with, well, time in general. It did not matter really.

The others had mostly forgotten about him by now, their minds focused on surviving, in flourishing in their own personal hells. 

For the most part, they seemed to have forgotten about Maxwell too. He hasn't been manifesting outside of the Throne, hasn't done so in years, and it was only his brief interruptions that bothered the rest of them, hound waves and giant migration paths that were all too easy to control and send along their destructive ways.

It all felt so pointless nowadays, not to mention that the scientists presence was a disturbance whenever he felt the want to torment someone. One couldn't quite focus on death and torture of numerous, violent kinds when there was a small hairy man running around with a purple hat upon his head, humming all sorts of nonsense and babbling about this and that, cooing to his captive bird as well as settled treeguards, planting seeds to help calm them as he talked and talked and talked.

That was the biggest difference, having Wilson here. The man practically never shut up, was never truly still, always doing something. So much energy in the once barren island seemed almost like it was too much, but the work in the soil and air had grown accustomed to the scientist. He wasn't flourishing, wasn't quite sane either that was for sure, but he seemed at ease here.

An odd situation, really, so very confusing, but Maxwell couldn't exactly do anything about it. He had no power in this place, only outside of it; only illusions and a harsh false reality.

Out of all the levels in this plane, the Throne Room was the closest to the real world. 

Wilson had told him, in their conversation earlier, that the one thing he missed the most was the sun.

Maxwell mentioned the summer, negative and thinking back on the blistering heat that would flood the levels above him, on the DragonFly and her rampage as she searched for a nest, on how it would get hot enough to catch plants on fire, how it would settle on his shoulders and make his heart pound and stutter. Maxwell didn't like the summer.

Wilson corrected himself, was talking of the sun itself, and not the gross pale representative that hung heavy in the sky of the shadow world. No, he had said, eyes misting over and rocking on his feet, purple hat snug on his head and lengthy hair bushing out underneath it, no, the real sun. 

And then he had seemed to sink in on himself, face falling, and he mentioned how he regretted having always stayed inside, having always avoided going out in the day. He would trade anything to feel the real sun again, actually warm and blinding and not a pale yolky mockery, even if he only was under it for a few moments.

Maxwell hadn't said anything then, avoided looking at the scientist and trying, really trying, to remember what the actual, true sun looked like, what it had felt like.

He couldn't remember, and looking at Wilsons crestfallen, distracted face, the King had decided that it was probably for the best that he didn't.

The man had been rather lethargic that day, keeping to his small makeshift camp, interacting with his preening bird and wandering around dejectedly, as if lost.

Whether in thought or just truly lost, Maxwell couldn't tell. It's been ages since the man had been assaulted by shadows, ages since hands had crept up to his usually ever alight fire pit, but the hat upon his head was fraying and he stared at nothing more and more often, seemed less energetic as more time passed.

It may not just be his willpower weakening in the surrounding darkness; grey hairs were sprouting from his mass of greasy hair, speckling strains that grew along with his beard that he shaved off when it grew too long for his liking.

The Throne stopped physically visible aging, though the years would catch up to Maxwell the moment he was released. This plane, however, this particular level, was safe enough and tied to the time stream closely enough that Wilson was visibly growing older here.

Usually he did not get to this point, ending up dead by hounds or the weather or shadows before a couple of birthdays passed him by. But there was nothing to kill him here, albeit a few spider nests that he'd hunt with care. The Queens did not emerge from their nests in this darkness and even warriors kept close to their homes, the dark all encompassing as They roamed about, ever watching.

It was a wonder that They have not taken care of this problem. Perhaps They thought it to be interesting enough to watch, to patiently wait for someone to take the Throne and destroy the growth that had planted itself all around Them.

Another reason Maxwell disliked the forests surrounding him; the satisfaction They'd get from its destruction was a certainty and he hated the fact that, the next time he'd end up here, it would all be barren dust and ash again. And there was nothing he could do about it, nothing at all.

As Maxwell sat in the dark, silently bemoaning the fate of the trees that hung above him in the night, something shuffled around, the sound of fabric and scuffed dirt. A click echoed over the marble and carpet flooring, Maxwell blinking his eyes at the small circle of light that flooded the area ahead of him, the tent standing starkly in the light as Wilson fiddled with his miners hat. 

One of his spider silk blankets hung off his shoulders, the grass stuffing poking out in clumps from the faded woven fabric, and Wilson scrubbed a clawed hand over his face and through his hair, the usually ever present hat now absent.

Maxwell watched quietly, sunken form laying limply upon the Throne. The scientist had a schedule, followed it to make sure he had enough food available, to care for the berry bushes and trees, to check on the spiders and other insects he had brought with him in his pockets so long ago. It felt a tad early, but Maxwell hadn't bothered to commit the schedule to memory and, really, it didn't matter to him when Wilson got up and started to do things.

While the worry of how much sleep the man was getting was present, eyeing the dark bags under his eyes and how he'd stumble about sometimes, yawning and looking as tired as ever, Maxwell couldn't exactly tell Wilson what he should and should not do. 

The scientist retired consistently, should be getting enough rest, but from how he looked every time he emerged...well, Maxwell was no stranger to insomnia. It has been a very long time since he had a good night's sleep, and he supposed for someone like Wilson sleeping was just as hard to achieve, especially down here.

Wilson looked about him, closing his eyes for a long moment and rocking on his feet before yawning, snapping his teeth together and giving himself a shake. He adjusted his blanket, shuffling about on the old fur carpet and smooth marble, and Maxwell closed his eyes and sighed.

Sleeping sounded nice right about now. Too bad the Throne kept him awake and exhausted, without relief of any kind. Even such a thing as dozing was barred from him, only the act of closing his eyes and quieting his thoughts giving any sort of vague rest.

Ignoring Wilsons flurry of activities had been surprisingly hard in the beginning, but after awhile it had grown easier to brush the noise off, a background music he much preferred over the ragtime tune that had once played over and over beside the Throne. Wilson had turned it off the instant he had started to settle here, kept it off and made sure it stayed off whenever a shadowy hand made its way to the gramophone.

Another thing Wilson's presence had caused; a decrease in Their presence. Something mortal and full of life, coming to this dead place and encouraging the growth of even more life, seems to have an adverse effect on Their interference. Obviously They could kill the man if They so wished, but for some reason no such thing has occurred as of yet.

Someone cleared their throat, rather loudly and close by, and Maxwell opened his eyes slowly, tired and bored as he focused on Wilson. The miners hat made him squint his eyes, the captive fireflies buzzing quietly, and the scientist adjusted his blanket almost nervously, not quite looking Maxwell in the eye.

“...What do you want?”

Maxwells nails tapped on the Throne, the bands of shadow keeping his arms tied down, effectively pinning him into place. His voice came out a little harsher than intended, caused the scientist to wince and tighten his claws on the hat, and Maxwell scowled as he looked away into the darkness. Startling the man didn't take much effort, and neither did scaring him into a trembling mess, but that wasn't what he had intended. Up above everyone was fair game and tormenting Wilson had always been an available time waster; down here, however, doing so was off the table. He had no right lashing out here, visibly powerless upon the Throne, and both of them knew that.

Wilson shuffled, shifting his weight side to side, chewing his lower lip absentmindedly and still not looking at Maxwell before he took a deep, steady breath. His claws clicked on the miner's hat, distracting Maxwell with the sharp, sudden noise for a moment before the scientist was suddenly much closer than he had been before. 

Maxwell stiffened and leaned back against the Throne, barring his teeth in surprise and discomfort as the scientist practically crawled into his lap, shifting himself to press his back against Maxwell's chest and sit in between his spread legs. The Thrones ropes of shadow tightened on his arms and legs as he inadvertently pulled on them, hands clawed and body tense as the man settled, tugging his blanket tighter around him as the miners hat was placed in his own lap.

It took a moment for Maxwell to form words, throat clogging with shock and back stiff, suddenly very uncomfortable. When he finally growled them out through clenched teeth the Throne had dragged his arms back onto their pinned positions, hands curled into fists as the strands tightened almost unbearably. 

“What do you think you are doing!?”

Wilson hunched forward, shoulders drawn up as his claws drew the blanket tight over his shoulders, the firefly light flickering for a moment as the silk fabric flashed over it.

“I'm...I’m tired.”

Maxwell hissed out a low breath, the shock tapering off into bubbling irritation and the faint fringes of confusion and curiosity, something that he fought against as he rolled his eyes at the rather lackluster response.

“Well, we can both agree that you are, indeed, tired. But that does not excuse this…”

And here he had to search for the right words, looking off into the darkness for a moment before refocusing on the mass of greasy grey specked hair that was currently right in front of his face. Wilson was still, the worn blanket hiding his boney back and bristling with bits of escaping grass, and Maxwell tapped his nails on the Throne, ignoring the discomfort of the tight straps laced over his thin arms. 

“...this breach of my personal space.”

Not exactly what he was trying to say, but articulating words perfectly was becoming a little hard. Wilson may not be leaning against him, but he was disturbingly close, brushing against Maxwell's outstretched legs. It's been awhile since anyone had gotten so near to him and it was starting to affect him quickly.

For a moment nothing happened, silent save for Wilson's quiet, ever so slightly wheezy breaths, but when Maxwell was finally starting to relax against the Throne, the surprise fading, waiting impatiently for a response, the scientist suddenly leaned back, pressing himself against Maxwell's thin chest. His voice was steadier, though a bit slurred with exhaustion and he wiggled himself into a snug position, the blanket pressed between them and pricking Maxwell's narrow chest uncomfortably.

“Just for tonight, alright? I'm...I haven't been sleeping well.”

Maxwells face curled into a frown, nervous energy sparking in his chest as Wilson's weight settled on him. That was the understatement of the century, as if the scientist had slept well at all the moment he had decided to stay down here for some inane, moral reason. Maxwell's hands clawed around the Thrones arms, tense as the strands kept him pinned down, unable to move, unable to push the man off of him. As he drew in a shaky breath to speak, to find some way to get the scientist to retire back into his tent instead of make himself comfortable on Maxwell, Wilson shuffled around for a moment and there was a sharp click as the light went out.

Words caught in his mouth, the sudden shift of firefly light into pitch black, and he felt Wilson shudder against him, bundling the blanket with clawed hands. This was dangerous, turning off the lights, but Maxwell already knew nothing was to happen because of it. Wilson didn't have a death wish.

He was too close to the Throne, too closely pressed against the Nightmare King; the claws in the dark could not kill the scientist and Wilson knew that.

It was silent and still for a time, Wilson slowly relaxing back as he wasn't grotesquely murdered by the things of the night, and Maxwell found himself more and more distracted from his initial negative reaction of having someone so physically close to him. It's been a very, very long time since anyone has come into contact with him, especially in such an intimate and touchy manner that caused someone to end up sitting in between his legs and lean back against him.

He couldn't, couldn't quite feel everything, atop the Throne. Power came at a price, even false illusionary power, and his physical body suffered for it. It was one of the reasons why he had manifested so much above this level, twisting illusion and glamour into whatever he wanted to be seen as. He still couldn't quite feel alive, up there, but it was better than the dead darkness of the Throne Room, of barely feeling the hard seat of shadow under him and knowing the coldness of the lone island but not being able to feel the temperature of the air whatsoever, skin prickling only under the eyes of the things in the dark.

But Wilson's weight was something he could feel. The man was scrawny, short and stout in most respects but less than healthy living environments have taken their toll on him. His breathing pressed himself against Maxwell, the blanket doing little to disguise the sharpness of his backbone, and the very feeling of having pressure against him in such a comforting way was starting to make something in his chest ache. 

Maxwell stretched his fingers, dragged his nails against the solid shadows of the Throne in a mixture of irritation and some other stuffy emotion he couldn't quite identify. He inadvertently shifted, pressing himself fully into the Throne and shoulders loosening as Wilson shuffled with him, keeping his back pressed to Maxwell's chest as a steady weight.

It was...oddly too much. The scientist was not a heavy man, not at all, but it sort of felt like Maxwell's lungs were being crushed and felt sore, yet at the same time there was something soothing about it all, pooling in his joints and relaxing his limbs, making his chest feel all too empty.

As Maxwell finally closed his eyes, laying his head back against the Throne and sighing through his nose as an odd shiver crept its way up his back, leaving his chest aching with the comforting weight laid upon him, Wilson shifted his head. Greasy hair swept against Maxwell's neck and throat, against his chin and mouth, tickling his face with strands before Wilson relaxed against him and laid his head against Maxwell's chest.

It only took a few moments for the semi peace to be broken.

“You…I can't hear your heartbeat?”

Maxwell sighed heavily, felt Wilson pull his head back, a clawed hand reaching behind Wilson to press against his thinly clothed chest, and he could almost imagine the furrowed, confused look on the scientists face. His hands tapped absentmindedly on the Thrones arm, a blank four pattern rhythm for a moment before he stopped, palms flat on the solid shadow.

“Do you have a pulse?”

“I thought you were tired, Wilson.”

The scientist ignored him, clawed hand reaching up to creeping up his neck carefully, both of them unable to see with the complete darkness surrounding them. Maxwell forced himself to relax, feeling the light drag of blackened talons against his neck, and his next breath was a little shaky as Wilson's palm pressed against his throat.

His own hands fisted from their pinned position, nails digging into his palms, and he hissed a low breath when Wilsons hands pressed flat against him, careful with his claws and feeling with the skin of his palms. A sudden shiver crawled up his spine, hair rising on the back of his neck, and Maxwell closed his eyes and turned his head away, exposing his throat to the scientists touch. His reaction seemed to jolt Wilson back, pulling his hand away and pressing his claws to his chest, then snatching at his blanket instead, clicking his claws together nervously as he hunched his shoulders.

“S-sorry. I was just…”

“Curious?”

Maxwell huffed out the word, blinking open his eyes into the darkness of the void, and his arms strained for a moment against his binds before relaxing back, hands still balled into fists. Wilson sat up, pulling his weight away from Maxwell, and something dropped in Maxwell's chest with such cold force that he followed, hands clawing into the Throne as he pressed his face into the scientist's hair and attempted to keep contact with him.

“It's fine, Wilson, it's...it’s fine.”

He breathed in, almost regretted it, but even the smell of sweat and dust and body odour could not deter him from trying to get that weight against him again. If his heart had been working, wasn't long shriveled and dead, it would have been pounding in his ears, would've caused a heat to spread over his face as his arms strained against the Thrones ropes.

Wilson hesitated a moment, claws still on the miner's hat he had been about ready to turn on, and then he slowly leaned back, Maxwell allowing him to and practically melting as he buried his face into the man's mop of disgusting hair.

He couldn't quite stop shivering, wanting so much to move his arms, wrap his hands about the man in his lap, but he couldn't and he breathed slowly, hoarsely for a few moments, chest pushing against Wilson's back as the man's weight settled back against him. Wilson was still, seemed unsure as Maxwell pressed his face against the crook of his neck and shoulder, and then he raised one of his clawed hands to lay on the other man's head, claws carefully brushing against Maxwell's scalp.

Something was happening here, something important, but all Maxwell could do was close his eyes and try to relax, the feeling of a quick pulse against his face, shuddering as claws threaded through his own roughed up hair. It's been such a long time since he's been touched, such a long time since he's felt anything but pain and the black void against his skin, numb to everything and forgetting what heat and cold felt like, but the deadening effect of the Throne hadn't taken it all away just yet. For the first time in a very, very long time, Maxwell could feel something, actually feel the weight and fluttering pulse and sharp tipped claws grazing his skull, and it was almost too much to bear. 

Wilson slowly relaxed as he felt the man behind him untense, now fully leaning against Maxwell and thus both of them leaning against the back of the Throne. His eyes stared out into the darkness, blinking slowly as he fought a yawn, and he pressed a hand against Maxwell's cold head, still wondering on the lack of heartbeat and pulse, on how icy cold his skin felt against him.

Maxwell finally relented on fighting the strands keeping his arms bound, just focusing on breathing in the scent of the man in his lap, in and out slowly as his chest ached. The weight on him was incredibly soothing, something he couldn't fully understand, and Wilson's own breaths made it even better somehow, every movement feeling as if he was being crushed and scattered into dust, yet pooling with something that lulled the ache in his chest and made him swallow thickly around the lump in his throat.

The comfort was almost too much, his skin prickling with discomfort and spines of pain, his trembling intensifying for a moment, and he clawed against the Throne with his nails, furrowing his brow and trying to distract himself with the mass of greasy hair in his face, of the skin to skin contact he had but couldn't feel, of the soft flutter of a pulse humming against him.

Wilson breathed in and out slowly, the usual rattling wheeze muffled, and he shivered when Maxwell pressed his cold face against his shoulder, the prickly blanket falling back to be crushed between them as he pulled his hand back to settle in his lap. 

He made a mental note, marking the fact that, along with the lack of heartbeat and pulse, the Nightmare King's skin was unnaturally icy. The rather irregular way he breathed, stopping for long periods of time before starting again, almost as if he had forgotten, was also of interest, and the scientist was puzzled by it all. He'd rather not chalk it all up to the Throne and it's workings, of which he had very little experience with in the first place, yet there may not be any other explanation.

Wilson's thoughts derailed as the man behind him shifted, felt him strain for a moment even as he pressed closer to Wilson, and the scientist opened his eyes to the abysmal darkness. Maxwells skin was so very cold, the brush of his nose and lips against Wilson's exposed neck making him shiver, goosebumps rising on his skin. Another irregular breathe pressed against his back, stuttering before a sigh of air blew on his neck, and he felt Maxwell shift again to press his forehead against Wilson's shoulder.

Maxwells arms were straining against the Thrones hold, shoulders tense as he vainly struggled against the shadows hold, hands curling and uncurling. His throat felt choked up, the ache in his chest only intensifying as more time passed, and he wanted so much more out of this but he needed to have his arms free to do anything at all, the feeling of being trapped and helpless closing in.

Wilsons weight was everything, a steady feeling that pushed against his skin and made his insides feel so much calmer, but his arms ached and felt so tense that the binding shadows only tightened more, wrapping around his bony arms and squeezing his numb skin.

Even as he pushed against the shadows will, arms tense and shoulders starting to protest the sudden exertion, Maxwell was very still, unwilling to disturb the scientist in any way, unwilling to accidently make this all end, wanting nothing more than to wrap him up and never let go. He didn't want to lose this feeling, whatever it was, but it felt as if it would slip through his fingers if he didn't catch it quick enough.

It took a moment to form the words, to squeeze his eyes shut and hiss them out, pressing his face against Wilson's shoulder and bushy hair as another shudder made him claw the Thrones arms, inky solid shadow rubbing against his nails uncomfortably. 

“Wilson, just...please, I...my hands-”

It wasn't what he wanted to say, wasn't what he meant at all but his chest felt like it was being mangled, squeezed into painful pieces, and his arms were snapped back against the Throne, hands curling and uncurling at the tightness, and the quiet keening sound from him cut off as he shivered and tried to will away the aching that seemed to be settling into his very being. His arms were tense, almost painfully stiff and his skin felt sore against the shadows ropes, that tense panic shifting in his chest at how stuck he was, at the dawning realization that he couldn't move, at how he had always known he couldn't move but only just now felt it sink in. Numbness was buzzing in his fingertips, not feeling any pain from the Thrones binds even as they tightened and squeezed him down, and if he had a working heart it would have been pounding in his chest, a sense of panic at being trapped slowly crawling up his spine. 

He was losing it, strained breaths as he barred his teeth into a snarl, eyes shut tight against the feeling of sand running through his shaking fingers, of nothing at all to grasp at besides the dense air. He was trapped, stuck here forever more, pinned like a fly in a web, and every attempt at struggling he made worsened it all and he knew that but-

There was no movement for a moment, only his haggard trembling, a shuddering fitful breath against a very tired, very worn out man, clothing and hair smelling of dirt and grease and the wild, of the life beating under his skin, and then something clicked against the Throne and Maxwells hands were touched lightly, sharp claws dragging softly against the thin skin of his fingers.

The King tensed, holding stagnant air in his lungs and keeping his head down, shoulders stiff and binds laced up and down his arms, biting shadow only light pinpricks against his numbed skin even as the feeling of bone claws pressing curiously against his hands seemed to swallow his attention completely.

It was only when he felt talons curl around between his fingers, rough palms pressing against his knuckles, that Maxwell let his head fall back against the Throne and sigh heavily, fitfully, a feverish breath exhaled from his lungs as everything suddenly stopped being too much.

He never needed much, needed practically nothing in the hold of the Throne, but right now it felt like he truly needed this.

Wilson relaxed fully against him, claws curling over Maxwell's bony hands, his head laying back under the Kings chin. Maxwell breathed in deeply, cold air flooding his lungs, eyes closing as claws squeezed his sensitive hands softly, something fluttering in his chest as he rubbed a trembling thumb against a talon and blew the breath out from between his teeth, face tense in an almost scowl but ever so slowly relaxing.

That sudden surge of panic had drained the moment his hands had contact, the weight shifting in his chest and smoothing over the hysteria that had bloomed in him and had made everything feel as if it had all been crushing in around him. The ache was still there, settled and deep in his lungs, but feeling the pressure of Wilson's own breaths against him and pressing him further against the Throne was smothering it down into only a faint soreness, hands covered comfortingly by blackened claws and rough skin.

Everything...everything was quiet, stuttered almost hesitant breathing slowly growing synchronized with Wilson's, the soreness of his skin fading away as claws brushed away the painful prickling feeling set in his fingers. His head felt light, the usual exhaustion and tiredness still deeply niched in but offset by the buzzing comfort that pooled in his chest, that made him feel like he was melting under the man's steady comforting weight. Exhaustion from the sudden bout of panic was settling in his limbs, heavy fluid in his chest that seemed to weigh him down completely to the Throne, a different kind of emotion pinning him down under Wilson's bony back and making his slow, shuddery breaths even out.

As he settled, a feeling of complete relief flowing through him, Maxwell felt Wilson slowly nod off. The scientists breathing grew slower, heavier, claws just resting on Maxwell's hands now, his own fingers carefully intertwining them together, and the King let his mind settle, focused only on Wilson's breathing that pressed against him as the darkness moved slowly about the Throne.

Stray thoughts flitted through his tired mind, of the Key and the Lock and of the Nightmare Throne itself, but a stuttered breath from Wilson, as he shifted and laid his head to the side upon Maxwell's chest, blanket wrapped loosely about his shoulders and bundled in his lap, banished the worries. A slow breeze pushed through the birchnut trees leaves, heavy with the salt of the void sea, and Maxwell sighed.

The Pawn may take the Kings place eventually, but not just yet.

Not yet.


End file.
